Silence
by EverybodyLies228
Summary: HouseWilson. Slash. The first chapter is almost like a prequel story within itself, but put it in there anyway. My first Fic ever so R&R PLEASE! Chapter 9 is up! Wilson hides out in the bathroom and gets another unexpected surprise again, not that kind!
1. You What?

**Silence: Chapter 1**

The door clicked. House looked up to see a familiar raincot-clad figure entering the room. He cleared his throat.

"My next condolence call is arriving."

He said it with a kind of melancholic air, though, in truth, this was the moment he'd been waiting for the entire day. Not that he'd ever admit it. He'd never admit that the approaching figure was the reason he'd let him self be subjected to this: the fancy ward others liked to call "the rehab center". He simply liked to call it "hell". It was easier to say. Though he doubted Wilson would be visiting him as much if he actually was in hell.

He watched his team leave and looked up cautiously at Wilson, trying to put on his best stonefaced expression. He searched Wilson's eyes for something, anything: anxiety, anger, pity, fear…But the deep brown eyes remained expressionless. He looked tired, flops of hair carelessly tousled across his forehead. House watched Wilson move closer, a vague, almost exasperated amusement creeping into the soft lines of his face. He noticed a tattered shopping bag extending from one Oxfor-shirt-clad arm.Wilson dropped it into House's calloused hands.

"I got you something"

House reached into the bag and felt the unmistakable smooth fabric of a tie.

_Typical Wilson_, he thought to himself. He pulled out said predicted garment and his eyes fell on a red, silk tie with small round flecks (he refused to say-er,think-the words 'polka dots') of colour. The appreciation threatened to show in his face as he put on the most casual expresion he could.

"Nice."

Wilson smirked slightly. "I thought maybe it could help make a good impression on the judge."

House searched for a bitter comeback.

"It's not _that _nice." It came out rather half-heartedly.

A silence fell between the two men. An _awkward _silenceHouse had always wondered how silences could be awkward. At least, as far as he knew, inanimate objects, or, in this case, states of being, did not possess the ability for coherent (or incoherent) thought or action. Because, well, if silences can be awkward, who knows what else they can do? Hey, he should start a religion…Silencism. That had nice ring to it.

He was snapped from his ridiculous two-second reverie by Wilson _very _non-discreetly attempting to extricate his coat from the confines of the space between him and the chair. Or at least that's what House _assumed _he was doing, because all it really turned out to be was a hip-thrust. House stared at the floor, suddenly feeling rather parched. He thought speaking might be a smart thing to do, considering that's most often what people do to end awkward silences, but the words seemed to fail him. He swallowed and looked up into a pair of deep brown eyes. And not just _any _old pair of deep brown eyes. They were _Wilson's _ pair, boring into his skull. He felt a dull ache spread through his body, and the words just tumbled out of his mouth.

"I had no right to blame you for any of this…" He focused on a spot on the floor. "I know you were just trying to help me. Protect me." He paused to look up at Wilson. "That's what friends do."

He inwardly cringed at the clichéness (was that even a word?) of his apology. Wilson hadn't seemed to notice, or care. He was staring at House with his best 'Am-I-hearing-this-correctly' face, ofted exhibited after a particularly half-witted comment by House, or before manipulating one of his particularly thickheaded patients.

"Is this-" He said in his best 'I-can't-believe-I'm-hearing-this' voice. "-An apology?"

House became interested in the floor again.

"Part of the program" He muttered. "If you don't like it I can stop."

"No." Wilson responded, a bit too suddenly. "No. It's just so…" Now he'd switched to his 'how-do-I-phrase-this-without-risking-being-hit-by-a-cane-shaped-object' voice. He sucked a breath in before continuing. "Unfamiliar."

House's lips curled into a smile and a silence fell between them.

House sat in the silence for a few moments, smiling lightly at Wilson, before realizing he'd been asked to continue.

_Shit._

He frantically searched for words, something to say, something to do, _anything._ But he couldn't come up with anything that didn'tinvolve moving in ways his leg really didn't want to, and possibly resulting in losing him his best--and _only--_friend, and he just wasn't ready for that. The pain he could handle, but the wanting-to-nail-his-head-to-the-floor awkwardness he'd have to deal with every time cancer was on the table was something he was sure he could live without. But, then again, maybe it was worth it to ask, or to tell, or to _do_, if it came to that. Maybe he was wrong. Theoretically. What if the three wives were just self-denial? Or maybe they were a distraction so he could traffic his lust for House at nice, young, non-crippled women who just couldn't get enough of the oncologist (until they divorced him). It had always puzzled House as to why men who dealt with bald, puking, tumor-ridden people all day were so sexy…

After many more musings, House figured that going insane from unrequited love was probably more tolerable than eternal loneliness. His chest ached. He looked up to see Wilson staring at him, a half amused, half expectant expression set on his boyish face. House's eyes travelled slowly from an immaculately-tied tie, past slightly parted lips, behind which stood 32 slightly crooked teeth, and came, once again, to lock with a pair of deep brown eyes. House felt as though he might loose it then and there. He closed his eyes tightly in a hopeless attempt to get ahold of himself. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears so loudly he almost checked to see if there was a Conch to his ear. Wilson was staring at him with increasing curiosity, but House noticed something else within his eyes that he couldn't quite place.

"Greg."

That one word encompassed so many emotions it almost made House physically shiver: sympathy, confusion, fear, endearment, and--though he must have been imagining it--need. Wilson never used his first name. House's breath hitched as he inhaled.

"James, I--" But his mouth went dry. He stared at the floor but he could still feel the deep brown eyes boring into his skull. House had never been good at that whole fight or flight thing. He gripped his cane deperately. "Nevermind." He muttered and stood up as quickly as his leg would allow. Pain wracked his body, mind flooded with thoughts he couldn't push away. It was as though his amygdala had stopped working. He shot one last glance down at Wilson, his eyes burning with words he would never speak, and leaned heavily on his cane. One step seemed to take ages, the stony silence hanging in the air, filling his lungs, constricting his throat. Even if he wanted to speak he couldn't. He took a second step, brushing past the chair and a hand shot out to grasp his wrist. A shock went through his body as his breath caught in his throat. He swallowed hard and turned his head to find that Wilson had somehow silently stood up and was now inches from his face. His eyes were unreadable; his breathing was labored, warm puffs of air gently floating across House's face.

"You what?"

House's entire body was on fire, he couldn't escape the eyes, the lips, the hand on his wrist. He felt drunk, and not the good kind, He was drunk in desire he could only supress. He was drowning and his lifeguard had unknowingly pushed him in. But he couldn't surface to tell him, to ask him to pull him out. So he did the only thing he knew how to do. He walked away: he walked away from the door he'd always wanted to open. He walked away from the house he'd always wanted to live in. Perhaps someday he'd walk back. He might even knock on the door. In the meantime, well, Wilson was right. He was a coward.


	2. Sleeping Habits

**Silence – Chapter 2**

Wilson approached the silent cinderblock cell, feet shuffling loudly against the dusty concrete floor. His hair was mussed and his shirt was gaping at the collar. He glanced at his watch: 2:28 AM. He couldn't sleep. He felt he probably shouldn't look to far into the fact that he'd automatically ended up here. It wasn't strange at all that, instead of watching TV when he couldn't sleep, he watched his best friend sleep in a jail cell at two-thirty in the morning.

_Just keep telling yourself that._

He halted to face the faintly illuminated cell. Feeding his hands through the gaps, he curled his sculpted fingers around the steel bars and pressed his nose to the cold metal.

He peered in wistfully at the dormant shadow on the hard, lumpy cot. A shaft of moonlight fell from a small square window, elucidating the contours of the his face. A faint smile danced on his lips and, for a fleeting moment, Wilson thought he looked peaceful. He smiled bitterly to himself. House hadn't been peaceful in five years.

He sighed a long, heavy exhalation.

"Why am I here?" He questioned the room quietly

He tipped his head back and raked his hands roughly through his hair.

"Why am I _still _here?" He clarified, as if the room had misunderstood him.

He stared at the rhythmical rising and falling of House's chest.

"Why the hell do I put up with you?" He laughed humourlessly and banged his head against the metal bar, a lonely sound resonating through the otherwise silent room.

He let out a shaky breath, releasing his hands from the bars, and stepped back to observe the milky moonlit room. He refocused on the sleeping House, eyes traveling slowly from graying stubble, past a wrinkled smoke-coloured chemise, and coming to rest on his right thigh.

Wilson loved watching him sleep. He couldn't see his eyes. He couldn't see the haze of pain, of pills that masked them.

He stared, still, at the figure, hypnotized by the countenance of peacefulness he hadn't seen for years.

He vaguely noticed he was becoming heavy-lidded, mesmerized, absorbed by the soporific rise and fall of House's chest. He knew he should be getting home but his feet wouldn't move. He felt himself sway into the small jut of cinderblock wall where the hallway narrowed, sliding down smoothly to rest on the dusty cement floor. His feet slid out with a loud scuffle, head resting against one of the cold steel bars. He never took his eyes off House.

_Maybe I'll stay just a few more minutes._


	3. Why are you here?

**Silence – Chapter 3**

"GOOD MORNING SUNSHINE!"

Wilson woke with a start, head colliding with hard concrete.

"Ah!" He hissed with pain, clutching the back of his skull in agony. "Damn it, House."

He stopped suddenly, realizing where he was. He'd spent the entire night in the jail. He looked up to see House, a look of confused amusement upon his face, towering on the other side of the cell, one hand on a bar and the other gripping his cane tightly.

"You sleep here?" But he already knew the answer.

Wilson did his trademark eyeroll. "No, House, I came to pick you up, but fainted at the beautiful sight of you sleeping with you mouth open. The drool on the pillow is what really got me." He was trying to act as natural as possible and was, of course, failing miserably.

House ignored him. "Why are you here?"

Wilson felt colour creeping into his face. He focused on a spot on the floor, looking anywhere but House's eyes for fear of what he might say.

"Couldn't sleep." He mumbled.

"Yeahh…" House drawled sarcastically. "I _always _go to jail cells at three in the morning to observe crippled misanthropes' sleeping habits when I can't sleep. _Why are you here?_" His tone fell serious with the last statement, punctuating each word. Wilson was still staring at the spot on the floor, but he could feel House's eyes on him. He grasped his neck with his right hand, rubbing roughly (one of his many nervous gestures House was accustomed to seeing). He squeezed his eyes shut and exhaled loudly, then slowly lifted his head. Brown eyes met with electric blue, a tangle of emotions hidden behind each, and Wilson's mouth slipped open to speak.

"I--"

Whatever he was going to say (which, honestly, he didn't know) was interrupted by the large metal door behind him being shoved open. Loudly. Their eyes tore apart, heads snapping quickly towards the doorway

A tall, burly, Neanderthal in trousers, white t-shirt, and combat boots walked (or rather, stomped) in. He glanced at Wilson.

"Who's he?" He grunted at House.

"The Easter bunny. I mean, _mommy _tells me he doesn't exist but--"

"I'm his friend" Wilson interjected pointedly, throwing a look at House.

He grunted again and reached inside a massive pocket of his massive pants with a massive hand and produced a massive set of keys. He flipped through about twenty of them before he had seemingly found the correct one. House tapped his cane impatiently as Carl (Wilson had decided that was his name. He looked like a Carl.) ambled slowly towards the cell door.

"I mean, I love this place and all, but I have an ex-house thief, a wombat, and the head of the National Pity Party to get home to, so if you could speed it up a bit I'm sure the dying people would appreciate it. Except Wilson's dying people. They don't care when I get outta here, they're gonna die anyway."

Carl grunted. Wilson did another perfected eyeroll.

They finally heard the click of freedom and House shoved the door open, breathing in the air as if it had somehow changed. He turned to Carl.

"Tell your cook the food tastes like couch cushions." And he turned to leave. He waited until Carl had grunted and wandered out of the room, and then stopped to address Wilson.

"Brought my bike. Sorry, you drove all the way out here and fainted for nothing."

Wilson couldn't help but smirk. Typical House. Just pretend nothing happened.

He went to get up but found it rather difficult. House stood enjoying the view for a few seconds before ambling over to aid his predicament. He stretched a calloused hand out to Wilson, who firmly grasped it. Wilson brushed the dust off his coat.

"Thanks." He said breathlessly and, despite his best interests, released House's hand.

House gave that short little nod that Wilson knew meant 'your welcome'.

"Wanna come to my place? I mean, I have no food and my couch smells like a combination of macadamia nut pancakes and urine but it beats a motel."

Wilson nearly opened his mouth to protest but decided maybe it was worth the risk. He gave him a small smile, and, much to his surprise, got one back.

"When?"

"Eight?"

"Sure"

House gave another little nod that Wilson recognized as 'sounds good to me'. Wilson gave him another quick flash of a smile and turned to exit the large metal door. He made half way there when he heard House's voice behind him.

"Oh, and Wilson?"

"Yeah?"

"Wear something nice." And he turned on his heels, leaving behind a very confused Wilson.


	4. Wear something nice

**Silence Chapter 4**

The room smelled faintly of shampoo. A warm vapor still glistened on the bathroom mirrors. Wilson sat crouching in boxer shorts, head plunged into the way-too-small hotel closet. Behind him, clothes were strewn carelessly on the bed and surrounding areas, and shoes flooded the floor so that anyone who came in would think there had been a twenty-man orgy. He picked up another pair of shoes out of the closet, surveyed them briefly, and threw them aimlessly over his shoulder to join the rest.

_Wear something nice._

House's words were stuck in his head like a particularly annoying song, repeating over, and over, and—did he mention?—_over_ again to the point where he was dangerously close to pulling out some of his perfectly blowdryed hair.

"What the hell, House?" He asked the closet, holding up another suit and quickly throwing in the general direction of the bed. He glanced at his watch—which he had forgotten to put on. Shit. He maneuvered carefully out of the closet and crawled over four pairs of shoes, three silk ties, two suit jackets, and a partridge in a pear tree to reach the bedside table. He fumbled around the nightstand before finally finding the clock, which he proceeded to knock _off _the nightstand and into another heap of clothing. Oh well. He grabbed it and turned it so it was visible. 7:18 PM. He'd been at it for nearly three hours and so far all he'd accomplished was blowdrying his hair and making his room so that anyone who attempted to traverse the floor, the bed, or really any of it, would most likely end up with multiple injuries. God, he was such a girl.

This would have been the moment in which Wilson sighed and ran his hands through his hair, but he didn't want to mess it up and make the last three hours _completely _useless so he settled for the old pinch-the-bridge-of-the-nose move.

He exhaled shaply. "Okay." He cleared his throat to adress a pair of shoes approximately fourty-three centimeters to his left. "Okay. Well. I've gotten every single—" He glanced back at his closet for confirmation. "—Yep. Every. Single. Thing. Out of my closet and I still have NO idea what I'm going to wear, so—" He quite liked this whole talk-to-yourself-to-prevent-going-insane thing, he thought, which was quite unfortunate because, at the exact moment that thought entered his head, the phone rang. This was just not his night. He clambered over the Himalaya Mountain Range of clothing on the bed and flung himself, rather inexpertly, in the general direction of the phone. Much to his surprise, he succeeded in grabbing the receiver, but found that he now had nowhere to put his hands. He had a brief moment of realization before he fell, head slamming into the wall, back landing on yet another stray shoe, his feet still on the bed. An inarticulate cry of mingled surprise and pain escaped his throat. It took him a few seconds to realize he still had the receiver in his hand. Cringing, he raised the receiver to his mouth, vaguely wondering who was on the other end and what the _hell _they thought he was doing.

"Hello?" He managed weakly.

"Jimmy?" House's deep voice, a strange combination of worry, confusion and supressed laughter in his tone, filled his ears with a warm familiarity. He felt himself flush.

"Hi." He said, slightly bothered by House's wonderfully horrible timing. "What's up?" He asked casually, which was quite a feat, considering the position he was in.

"Bored. Hungry. Hungrily Bored. I'm picking you up in five minutes."

"Okay." He said automatically, before his brain had fully digested the last statement, particularly the last two words. He caught himself fairly quickly, though, the deer-in-the-headlights look creeping into his face. "Wait—what?! I. Um. I'm. Uh—" There were many ways in which he could end that sentence, the most prominent being "not dressed", closely followed by "lying on the floor with a shoe digging into my back and unsure if I can get up". But somehow, all that came out was "Okay."

He would have physical kicked himself in the head, but he was not _that _skilled, so instead he settled for mentally kicking himself in the head.

"What are you wearing?"

"At the moment? Uh. Nothing."

He could almost _hear _House's eyebrows raising.

"Well, I'm not sure that exactly fits the dress code where were going, so—"

"Which is where, exactly?"

"You'll see. Be there in five."

He sighed resignedly. "Alright."

"And Wilson?"

"Yeah?"

"Wear the green tie." And he hung up.

Wilson pulled the receiver from his ear and smiled thoughtfully at it. The smile quickly faded, though, as reality caught up with him. He was lying half-off his bed and currently unable to get up, with nothing but boxers on, and his room looked at though he'd attempted to make a bad (well, _worse_) rendition of the movie _Twister_. And the best part of it all, the part that had him just jumping (figuratively) for joy, was the fact that he had approximately four minuites to fix these problems.

He decided to remedy his physical predicament first, because he doubted he'd have much luck getting dressed in his current pose. He inched his feet along the edge of the bed, towards the foot, slowly spinning his body sideways, and swung his feet onto the floor so that he was now laying in a sort of messed up vertical line between the bed and the wall. His hand groped at the bedspread and he managed to pull himself into a sitting position. Now would have been the time when he sat, sighed, and assessed his multiple minor injuries, but, at the moment, his first and foremost concern was _not _being in nothing but boxers when he answered the door.

He levered himself onto his feet and jumped over another heap of clothing to one of the many messy mounds of ties he had created. His hands frantically tore the pile apart. Jackpot. He held up the desired article triumphantly, slung it around his neck, and proceeded to tear apart the remaining piles for pants, jacket, shirt, and shoes.

God, he hoped House would be late.


	5. Experiment

**Silence – Chapter 5**

Exactly six seconds before House arrived, Wilson was standing in front of the full length mirror in his best black trousers, black suit coat, black dress shoes, and white tux shirt. Around his neck, immaculately tied as ever, was the green tie. He had managed to shove the piles of clothes rather unceremoniously in the closet, so, aside from the fact that he was going to be doing some _serious _ironing tomorrow, he thought he'd done a damn good job for five minutes.

He was smoothing his already perfect hair when there was a knock at the door. He smiled at his reflection, exhaling preparedly, then strode over to unlatch the door. He swung it open to find himself face-to-face with the best-looking House he'd seen since—well, ever. He was dressed in charcoal trousers and suit coat, an _ironed _white Oxford lined with subtle black pinstripes, a black leather belt fixed with an intricate silver buckle, and a striking crimson silk tie. For a moment he was speechless. He imagined he must look like an idiot, standing in the doorway with his mouth open, ogling at his best, _male _friend, but when he fixed his eyes on House's face, he found him smiling. It sent a wave of warmth through him, and he found himself smiling back.

It was House who finally broke the comfortable silence.

"Ready?" He asked smoothly. He never imagined House even remotely capable of being debonair.

Wilson cleared his throat rather awkwardly, startled slightly. "Yeah."

House smiled at him sideways and swung his cane out in an 'after you' gesture. He was being polite: something was seriously wrong with the world. He was about to ask, but decided at the last moment that maybe he should just enjoy it, so he took the invitation. House fell into stride right behind him.

They walked in silence down the dimly lit hallway, the uneven thuds of House's cane echoing softly through the corridor. They reached the lift and House pressed the down button with his cane, which, Wilson noted, was also far too elegant for normalcy: a slim black shaft with a curved, embellished silver tip. He shot a sidelong glance at him, his eyes filled with confusion, that simply asked "Why?". The look he received was one of smugness, almost mockery, that said, quite plainly "That's for me to know, and for you to figure out".

He'd seen this look before, and knew it usually didn't bode well. He almost asked again, but decided he would wait till he got wherever he was going first.

The lift finally arrived. Their shoulders brushed briefly as they stepped in together. They descended the lift in silence, Wilson still in a state of some adjective between pure elation and utter confusion, and House standing lopsided with an equally lopsided smirk plastered on his face.

They didn't speak until they were in the parking lot, approaching an infamous piece of orange metal.

Wilson stopped in his tracks. He hastily placed a look of sheer horror on his face to mask the inner trickle of excitement dripping down his spine.

"No. No thank you. I don't feel like dying…not tonight." He protested, but his eyes betrayed every word that left his mouth. House must have noticed because he gave a knowing smile as he threw a helmet to Wilson, who sighed for the 43rd time that night.

"It's 42 degrees." He _didn't _whine.

"Yeah. I know." House responded dismissively.

Wilson accepted the futility of the argument, which was largely due to the fact that he didn't mean a word of what he was saying. He flipped the helmet upside down so he was staring at the black, felt covered interior.

"Well, my hair _was _perfect." He muttered to himself and slipped it on clumsily. House must have heard him, because he heard a distinct snort of laughter to his left.

He opened his eyes to find that House had already mounted the bike and was staring at him expectantly. He took a step to close the distance. House's eyes were still on him but they had now fogged with something unreadable. He took a deep breath and swung a leg over the motorcycle, placing a firm hand on House's shoulder, partially for the contact, and partially because he actually needed the leverage. It sent a quiet fire through his arm, igniting every nerve in his body with a warmth, a warmth that can't be obtained by sitting on radiators or gulping hot chocolate in the winter. He thought the heard House's breath hitch slightly, so he decided to try an experiment. He settled himself against House's back, and the silent fire spread through his chest, shocking his heart into a rapid rhythm. He slid his right hand from House's shoulder, down his back, feeling the molded curvature of his muscles through the fabric of his coat, and curled it around his middle. He reached his left hand around to rest just above his right, and rested his head comfortably against House's strong shoulder. House swallowed hardly. Wilson felt his heart rate speed up through his shirt, and heard his breath catch in his throat.

_Hm. That's interesting._

House snapped back to reality and shoved the key into the ignition. The engine revved and the bike lurched forward. Wilson wrapped his hands tighter around his friend's torso as they sped out of the garage into the crisp night air. Lights flashed by in a blur of red, yellow, green. The city was alive with the sound of people, cars, but somehow all that Wilson heard was the beating of two hearts. A contented smile fluttered across his face as he buried deeper into House's shoulder.

He would analyze the results of his experiment later.


	6. Where are we?

Wilson felt his eyes slowly drift closed, the hum of the bike and the feel of House againt him filling his senses with a lulling passivity.

Not for long.

Without warning, Wilson was sent forward as the bike came to a sudden halt, his eyes snapping open with a force that ought to have hurt. He glared at the back of House's head resentfully, perturbed by the sudden shock of travelling from 60 to 0 miles per hour. He realeased House, reluctantly, and got up to look him the eyes, demandingly.

"Could you give a guy a little warning?" He asked, exasperatedly.

"I _could_, but—"

"I know, I know. It wouldn't involve torturing me, and, well that's just not any fun at all, right?"

House gave a smug nod of approval. "I've trained you well."

"In what? The art of being an ass?" He sniped sarcastically.

"Actually, I think of myself as more of a bastard. Some days I'm a son of a bitch, though, but only on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays."

But Wilson had stopped listening. He had turned his attention to perusing the area around them—wherever that was. To his right was a grafiti-covered dumpster sitting against a shabby wooden fence. Out of it crawled several large rats that probably carried rabies or the plague or something. To the left of him was a building—or what was left of one—of chipped brick that had somehow turned a shade a little darker than dryer-lint gray, with moldy, boarded windows (the boards were moldy, not the windows.), that looked as though it had once been an apartment complex. He slid his foot roughly across the pavement, which was sparsely covered in gravel and cigarette butts and a thick layer of dust.

He was in quite a state of consternation. He shot a look at House.

"Uh…Is this where you get your secret stash of vicodin or something?"

"No. That's what I have you for."

"Oh, right. And I suppose that's all i'm good for, isn't it?"

"No." He said, and for a moment Wilson thought he said it meaningfully. "You make good pancakes." Okay, meaningfullnes gone.

Wilson shook his head in his characteristic 'why-do-I-put-up-with-you?' way.

"Where are we?" He inqured, uneasily.

House broke out in a mischevious grin. The kind of mischevious grin that made Wilson start to fear for his life.

"Close your eyes." He ordered

That was not he expected. He didn't know what he had expected, but it was definitely not that.

"W-what?" He stammered, suddenly blown off course like a birdie in a game of badmitton during a hurricane. Not that he knew what that was like.

"Close. Your. Eyes." He repeated in his well-practised 'here-let-me-slow-it-down-for-the-idiot' voice, usually used at _least _one time per patient.

Wilson huffed in a very 'I-am-not-an-idiot' tone. "Why?" He questioned impatiently.

"It's a surprise. Duh."

"What _kind _of surprise?" He asked, slightly unnerved by the prospect of being led, blind, by House, of all people. Being hit by a car was not on his agenda for the day. He was pretty happy with how many appendages he had.

"Well, if I answered that, it wouldn't really be a surprise any more, would it? Just close your damn eyes."

"Fine." He said, resignedly and squeezed his lids shut. A hand snaked its way around his elbow, hovered for a moment, and tugged. Hard. Wilson stumbled, gravel crackling beneath his feet, as House's other hand shot out to keep him from actually falling. He heard a suppressed—was that a _giggle_?—emanate from House.

"I hope you weren't a guide dog in your past life." It was supposed to be bitter, but the fact that House was holding his arm kind of took the edge off.

"Relax. I'm not gonna kill you. And I'm not gonna let you ruin your precious suit."

"I'm debating whether or not I should be ignorant and believe you or be smart and fear for my life."

"I have a third option. Shut up."

"Fine, but if I die, you're doing my clinic duty."

House shut up abruptly and started leading him gently down the alleyway.

Victory.


	7. I Guess you Should

**Silence – Chapter 7**

"Where are we going?" Wilson asked for the sixteenth time. In the last two minutes.

"What, do you think if you keep asking, I'll somehow forget it's a surprise and tell you? What do you think I am, an idiot?" Wilson started to open his mouth but House cut in. "Don't answer that." His mouth snapped closed with a smirk. "Relax. We're almost there." And he gripped Wilson a bit harder, most likely attempting to annoy him, but instead sending a thrill of pleasure up his spine. He swallowed a gasp and felt his feet move with a new ease as the thrill reached his head and destroyed all the badly-painted protest signs the 'better judgment' part of his brain had attempted to make. So he followed.

Just as he was beginning to think that maybe House wasn't so bad at this after all, he decided to suddenly halt, sending Wilson rather awkwardly into him. So much for that.

"We're here." He announced pointlessly.

"Yeah. I gathered that. Can I open my eyes yet?"

"Almost." He took Wilson's hand in his own and led him through what he assumed was a door. He felt expensive carpet squish under his shiny French shoes as a distinct aroma of aged wine and fresh baked bread filled his senses. A faint, melodic, tune floated gently from what he assumed was a grand piano in the far left corner of the room. He imagined it. Polished jet black wood. Brilliant ivory keys. He imagined House sitting on the bench, as black and furnished as the piano itself. His fingers drifted over the keys, pressing each with a different inflection, a different emotion, gracefully pushing notes, rhythms, music out of the instrument. He imagined House was looking at him, and suddenly he could see beyond the haze. All he saw was blue, electric blue and it made him feel weak in every muscle, in every bone of his body.

He vaguely felt House release his hand.

"You can open your eyes now." He heard him whisper in his ear, breath drifting over the lobes, ruffling his hair. A voice in the distance.

He exhaled shakily and pushed his lids open. His breath caught in his throat as a familiar room, lit by candles and intricate wall sconces, filled with twenty or so familiarly clothed tables, each set with familiar sets of spotless silver wear, came into focus. A room he hadn't seen in five years. His mind leapt back to a warm, Saturday evening. It was April. Wilson was on his way up to a conference in New York the next day. He'd just wanted a nice, quiet meal with a friend, to celebrate life. To celebrate love. And that's just what he got. The last real one he ever had.

He was in the middle of the conference when he got the call. He knew then and there that he would remember that night forever.

"I don't know if you remember, but—" House's hesitant voice cut into his reverie.

"I remember." He interrupted, twisting his head slightly to meet House's gaze. He let a deep breath escape his throat, all the tension of the past week seeming to ebb out of him, and he could do nothing but smile. House returned the gesture, his soft lips curling into the first genuine smile Wilson had seen since—well, he couldn't remember, leave it at that. At that precise moment, the rest of the world seemed to fall away: all the fat billionaires eating fish and talking about new ways to corrupt their business for monetary gain, all the young couples that would probably cheat on each other next week. He couldn't hear them anymore. The only thing he could hear was the sound of breathing. The only thing he could see was House's face. He'd seen it so many times before, but somehow it looked different. The lines of pain were somehow not as deep, the eyes not quite as clouded. He told himself it was probably just the lighting. He had the sudden urge to lean in, to close the space between them that had been lingering for over a decade, but the world suddenly came flooding back as a sickly sweet voice bounced off his eardrums.

"Two?" Their eyes unlocked and swerved to look at a small, red-headed woman with big green eyes standing expectantly in front of them, menus tucked neatly under one thin arm. Totally unfazed.

Wilson tried to speak but found that somehow House had the power of restricting the use of his vocal chords as well as his better judgment. Thankfully, House saved him.

"Yeah." He said, hoarsely. Almost huskily, Wilson noted.

The red-head smiled sweetly and weaved them through the crowd to a candlelit table for two near the left corner of the room. Near the piano. They took their seats silently. Wilson shot a glance at House, who gave him a quick smile, as the woman expertly plopped the menus on the table.

"What can I get you to drink? I highly recommend the—"

"Bottle of Merlot. Two glasses." House cut in, startling her a bit. Maybe she wasn't used to people interrupting her. With a voice like hers, that was hard to believe. Wilson watched her walk away, her small figure bouncing annoyingly with each step she took.

He turned his attention back to the man across from him.

"Don't tell me you're actually paying for this. I think I might cry." It was meant to be sarcastic, but in reality that was not too far from the truth.

House gave him a 'Ha. Ha. Very funny.' look. "Believe it or not, I am human, and capable of expressing emotions such as generosity, appreciation—"

"Love?" That was not what he meant to say. Too late now. He gave a tentative look at House, trying to seem as if he didn't mean what he meant when he said what he just said that he didn't mean to say. Wow, that was confusing.

House stared for a few moments before catching himself. "No, I only lived with Stacy for five years because she cooked. By that standard, I should be living with you for the rest of my life." A bad attempt at sarcasm. House always used that when he was avoiding something. Suddenly Wilson wasn't so sorry for what he'd just said. He gave House a knowing smile.

"Yeah. I guess you should."


	8. This is not as good as yours

_**A/N: Sorry guys, I've taken so long! And sorry this chapter is so short (Eva, don't kill me) but I haven't been able to work on it recently, and I couldn't figure any good way to continue this chapter. The ending sentence seemed too perfect, I couldn't go anywhere else with it. I promise the next chapter will be up quickly, though! And it will definitely be longer. And more fun, if you get my drift….. : )**_

**Silence – Chapter 8**

Wilson stuffed the last piece of broiled Atlantic salmon resolutely in his mouth. He sucked the rich flavor out of it, letting the juices run hotly down the back of his throat, and licked his lips daintily. He leaned back against the firm wood of the dining chair to observe House, who was finishing off an impressively large plate of Fettuccine Alfredo. His thoughts floated back to last week. Tuesday. House'd had a particularly challenging (or, as he put it, annoying) patient. Wilson had made Fettuccine as one of his many save-the-starving-cripple-living-on-peanut-butter missions. He remembered sitting on the couch, relishing in the sight of the slick, creamy noodles sliding smoothly between House's normally harsh lips, resisting the urge to wipe off every streak of sauce that lingered on his lips before the napkin reached it.

He vaguely wondered if this was better than his.

"This is not as good as yours."

Great. House can read his mind now, too. He bowed his head and smirked to himself.

He was toying nervously with the napkin when, suddenly, something was different. The slurping sounds had stopped. His eyes shifted upward to find that House was staring squarely at him, a peculiar expression on his face. His eyes shone with something and flashed with something else. Something and something else Wilson planned to inquire about later. There was a single white streak extending from the right corner of his bottom lip. Without thinking—Really. His Brain just went right out the window—Wilson reached across the table. His hand was just centimeters away from the offending streak when his brain decided to come back _in _the window. He couldn't exactly pull back at this point, and he'd known House too long to still be able to use the "Sorry, I have Tourettes" excuse, and it was definitely too late to turn it into a "Look, there was someone doing something over there but now they're gone" gesture, so he decided _oh, to hell with it_ and continued. He did all this thinking very quickly, mind you, because it would have looked just as strange had he been sitting there with his hand hovering over his best (and _male_) friend's mouth for five seconds while he contemplated the next course of action.

His thumb made contact with rough stubble and House's eyes widened visibly, the kind of visibly where people on the other side of the restaurant would start looking behind them for serial killers. He rubbed the streak off in one expertly placed swipe and brought his hand away smoothly, brushing his remaining four digits along the underside of House's chin.

He was enjoying this.

So he decided to enjoy it even more. He languidly brought his left hand towards his mouth, flitting his tongue out in an almost unnoticeably brief flash of pink (though, judging by House's reaction, it was noticeable enough) and proceeded to perform his second experiment of the night. He slowly slid his thumb between his lips and curled his tongue around it, savoring the sweet taste of Alfredo mixed with—something else. Something House. House's fork slid lazily from his hand to the table with a sharp clatter. He absorbed the taste one last time before smoothly pulling his thumb out with a final flash of pink. He rested his elbow calmly against the table and stared at his thumb, now covered in a slick, clear sheen, a thoughtful expression set on his handsome face.

He looked up at House. "You're right. This is not as good as mine." He said simply.

House's eyes widened further (Wilson didn't think it was physically possible, but he managed) before he squeezed them closed. He pushed his eyelids open and cleared his throat awkwardly. His eyes dropped down to his lap as he shifted slightly in the wooden chair. He swallowed thickly. He seemed to be having a bit of trouble breathing.

Wilson smirked, his eyebrows raising lasciviously.

Now _those_ results he didn't have to analyze.


	9. Outta here

**Silence – Chapter 9**

Wilson stared at his reflection, the dimly lit bathroom glowing softly around him.

_What the hell did I just do?_

He'd expect House to stare. But he didn't expect him to _stare._ The kind of stare where Wilson started having serious doubts about his previous reservations of House's intentions. Maybe it was all in his head. Maybe he wanted it so badly he'd misinterpreted all of it: the motorcycle, the strange looks, the lack of ability to breathe (that was pretty hard to misinterpret). He wondered what House was doing…if he was still sitting there, staring dumbly ahead. Maybe he'd left. Maybe Wilson would walk out there and the check would be sitting on the table, the waiter would give him a sympathetic look, and he'd go home and cry himself to sleep. Okay, wow. He was not _that _much of a girl.

He reached for the faucet knob. Cold water poured out of the silver tap and he cupped his hands beneath it. He bowed his head and threw a bout of cold water in his face, shocking himself back to reality. The reality that he had to get out of the bathroom _sometime_, because, if House hadn't left, he probably thought Wilson had climbed out the bathroom window and was now heading for Mexico. He ran a cursory hand through his hair, screwing its usual perfectness. Right now he had more important things in his agenda: like making sure House didn't want to send him to the funny farm.

He took an uneasy step away from the mirror, running his eyes down his reflection one more time and prepared himself for whatever lay beyond the tasteless steel bathroom door. He closed his eyes and curled his fingers tightly around the handle. He was sure his heart stopped as he pushed his eyelids open to find himself face to face with—two empty seats. House's Alfredo was still there, his fork still laying upside down, the napkin still draped over the edge of the table.

He squeezed his eyes shut but the image remained burned his lids, taunting him. He should have known it was too good to be true. He'd gotten so close to House letting down his walls and now he'd practically rebuilt them for him. God, he was so _selfish_. He didn't even see the lines, the lines that he'd not only crossed but probably obliterated.

"Fuck." He whispered to himself. "Fuck." A little louder this time. "Fuck." A strangled sob escaped his throat. "FUCK." This time he got looks.

He flung himself around, away from the sweet aroma of bread and wine, and yanked the bathroom door open. He felt sick. He stumbled over to the porcelain sink and fumbled desperately with the faucets. Another strangled sob. Music started to drift slowly under the door, floating gently along the tile floor and up to Wilson's ears. But he couldn't hear it. He wouldn't. And he didn't notice it getting louder, he didn't notice the intricacy of the melancholic rhythm. He didn't think it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever heard in his life because beauty didn't exist. Not in this moment. And suddenly he hated that piano player, hated him more than anything in his life.

He tore away from the sink and flung himself through the bathroom door, his hair in a rampage of mangled twists and turns, his cheeks flushed to a raw crimson. He started to open his mouth but when he turned to the piano he found that everything was suddenly blue. Electric blue. No haze. And as he watched his friends fingers glide gently along the ivory keys, he felt like running across the restaurant, taking the man in his arms, and never letting go. But Wilson was never one for spectacles. So he simply stared. And House stared back. He simply smiled. And House smiled back. He simply cried. And House—is not that melodramatic. But he continued to stare. And he continued to smile. And he continued to play. And suddenly Wilson realised that the intricate notes being pushed out of the piano were the same intricate notes that had been pushed out the last time he'd set foot in the restaurant. Twelve years ago. He still remembered the song. He had absolutely no idea what it was called, but he remembered it. And House remembered it. And House—_never_ remembered things like that. Wilson smiled softly to himself as another tear slid down his face. This time he let it fall. He didn't stop this one, didn't reach to wipe it away. And then he let another fall. And another. He let out a breathless laugh. He let the salty juices run down his throat and no matter how much he wanted to gag he just kept laughing. And he had absolutely no idea why. Nothing was funny. Nothing was sad. But for some reason it just felt like the thing to do. He figured when someone gets filled with the extreme of every emotion possible in less than five minuites they don't really care which emotions mean what anymore.

He let out another choked laugh.

"Are you okay?" A high pitched voice cut sharply into his momentary scape from reality.

Wilson, snapping out of his reverie, and ingoring the high piched voice, realised that the song was ending. He made a beeline for the table, wiping his eyes one last time in a hopeless effort to make himself seem manly, and sat himself in what he hoped didn't look like a 'can we get out of here so we can go back to your place and make out on the couch for five hours?' stance. But it probably did. At this point he didn't really care any more. He was staring into a pair of electric blue eyes ambling (faster than usual) towards him and therefore didn't really give a shit _what_ his stance was saying, only that it was saying it well.

He cleared his throat awkwardly as House's polished black shoes halted a few feet from him. He looked up expectantly at the farmiliarly looming figure next to him and felt himself smile, his face softening into an affectionate arrangement of feature.

House gave him an entirely different look. "Let's get outta here." He said huskily, eyes darkening to a shade of turbulent blue.

Under other circumstances, House probably would have laughed at how quckly Wilson leaped out of his seat.

_Okay. Maybe he was that much of a girl._


End file.
